Nothing Beautiful About Death
by Ninth of December
Summary: A short vignette set in the cusp between the 4th and 5th books. Harry has nightmares, and reflects.


Nothing Beautiful About Death

_Ninth of December._

Even in the first early twinges of morning, it was hot. In fact, 'hot' was an understatement - there had been little cool weather to speak of since the summer began, and next to no rain. However, the sweat that glued his sheets to him wasn't only from the humidity of the beginning of the day, but because of the aftermath of a nightmare.

Staring up at the ceiling, Harry attempted to calm himself by breathing slowly and deeply, but the grip of terror in his stomach wasn't ready to loosen it's hold just yet. He closed his eyes, willing to lingering fear to pass, waiting, wishing - after awhile, it started to ebb away, leaving him with the still-vivid imagery of his dreams. He was tired, but he didn't want to drop back off into sleep; his sleep was always disrupted by recurring nightmares. Unlike the nightmares of most other teenage boys, though, his nightmares had once been a reality - and in some cases, were still a reality.

Peeling the sheets away from his moist skin, Harry pulled on a shirt several sizes too large, and slipped his glasses on, his vision clearing. Number four Privet Drive was still quiet, the Dursleys' still sleeping their peaceful, untroubled dreams. Standing, he wandered over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and stared down at the street below. The streetlights were still on, seeming unnecessary in the early glow of dawn, and the immaculate houses along Privet Drive were dark, and their curtains closed. He felt like the only person in the world who was awake.

In the distance, he could make out something moving across the sky. With a glance at the clock, he guessed that this would be an owl, bringing him the Daily Prophet. Anxiety gripped him. Was today the day that there would finally be news? Something? Anything?

Harry opened the window, turned, and dug around in his nightstand for a few knuts to give to the owl when it arrived before turning back to watch the approaching creature. Soon enough it had reached him; perched on the window ledge, it dropped the Prophet, and stuck out it's leg expectantly, where a small pouch was tied, which Harry slipped the coins into. As soon as the transaction was complete, the owl hooted, and was off.

He stooped, and picked up the Daily Prophet, only to cast it aside again. There was nothing of interest on the first page, and he had long since given up looking through the entire paper.

Resting his forehead against the glass, Harry allowed himself to wander inside his own head, to remember, to revisit the constant pain of it - after all, he had often heard that you could get used to pain, if you pressed it close enough to your heart… and my God, he wanted nothing more than to be rid of the pain, and the fear.

The idea of Lord Voldemort having returned seemed so surreal here in the Dursleys' house; it didn't seem possible that he had come back, and that nobody believed it - anger flooded through him, and he smashed his fist against the window ledge. Nobody believed HIM.

When he had returned to Hogwarts the night of the Third Task, after escaping Lord Voldemort, the portkey in one hand, and Cedric's arm in another, he had thought that he might have been given a small gift in light of all the insanity the night had brought - he had thought that perhaps he had bought a small amount of time for their side, some time to mobilize against Voldemort, some time to get ready before he struck… just time.

But the students had not believed him. Fudge had not believed him, and had subsequently controlled what was to be put into the Daily Prophet; nobody knew the reality of what was going on, and those that did were far away, and not giving Harry any information as to what was going on.

Fury rushed through him, and he closed his eyes once more. His mind drifted back to the last feast of the year, where they had said their farewells to Cedric. He had often heard death described as beautiful, but remembering Cedric, laying there, spread-eagled on the cold ground of the graveyard, struck down by the curse that had killed his parents, he couldn't think of it that way. The fear that was on his face, and how frighteningly sudden it had all been had rocked him on his foundations. There had been nothing beautiful about staring down into his ashen face, a face that the school had idolized, that had always been full of life - and seeing none.

He had been a rival in everything; in Quidditch, in the Tournament, in seeking Cho's affections… Despite the less-than-friendly feelings that Harry had felt for Cedric all year, he felt like he had lost a part of himself that night in the graveyard. Cedric's death had crossed a line in him that he hadn't known existed; the admixture of the terror he felt in himself, and that reflected on the older boy's lifeless face - the face that visited him every night in his nightmares - had shaken him. Things had changed, rules broken, and he had come to terms with the idea that nothing could be the same after that night.

Indeed, there was nothing even remotely beautiful about death, he thought, opening his eyes and watching as, one by one, the streetlights flickered out.


End file.
